Watchdog's Bio: Painting, Me and first daughter Angela

(Or: How I Became an Accidental Gay Heartthrob in Los Angeles)

When Angela was about six months old, someone snapped a photo of me in my Army uniform, holding her affectionately. This was impressive, considering that only a few months earlier she had expressed her deep, unconditional love for Daddy by peeing directly in my face. Nothing says “bonding” like a surprise golden shower from your newborn.

My wife took that photo to a local artist, who turned it into a beautiful oil painting — about 30 by 18 inches — and framed it. Years later, Angela and Michelle got into a heated debate over who should inherit it. Angela argued that since the painting featured her and me, she was the rightful owner. Michelle countered with the far more compelling legal argument of:

“It’s hanging in my house in Los Angeles, and you live in Columbus. Therefore, I win.”

Hard to argue with geography.

Because Michelle worked in Hollywood, many of her coworkers were gay — something I knew firsthand, having met several of them and found them to be wonderful people. One day she hosted a BBQ and invited a group of coworkers, many of whom were gay. I wasn’t there; I was back home in Folsom, probably doing something exciting like paying bills or yelling at the TV.

As the party crowd drifted into the living room, the painting was impossible to miss. According to Michelle, one of the guests stopped, stared at it, and asked:

“Who is that in the painting?”

She replied, “That’s my dad.”

His response?

“Oh… he’s so hot.”

When Michelle told me this, I immediately instructed her to take the painting down, wrap it carefully, march it to the nearest FedEx, and ship it straight to Angela in Columbus. Naturally, she ignored me — just as she had ignored most of my instructions during the 18 years she lived under my roof at my expense.

So as of September 2026, the painting still hangs proudly in her home in Burbank, patiently awaiting the next visitor who will gaze upon it and declare:

“Oh, he’s so cute.”

And honestly? I can’t complain. I always suspected I was kind of cute.